


Ordinance of Fate

by WerewolvesAreReal



Category: Temeraire - Naomi Novik
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Book 1: His Majesty's Dragon, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Pining, Political Alliances, Politics, Romance, Secrets, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-07
Updated: 2020-05-16
Packaged: 2020-06-23 20:34:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19708924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WerewolvesAreReal/pseuds/WerewolvesAreReal
Summary: The name comes when he is 15, and Laurence hides it immediately.Then at the age of 22 Laurence reads a letter from an old shipmate who writes that “the troops in Italy were routed by some new General of theirs, Napoleon Bonaparte - "





	1. Chapter 1

“Pray do not stare, Lieutenant,” Laurence murmurs as they nudge their way through the crowds; a guard steps forward when they approach the gates and Laurence willingly hands over their invitations.

“I do not mean to, Sir,” says Gibbs guiltily. “But it is somehow not what I expected.”

Laurence bites back his first response, well aware that his temper is short; the thought of the upcoming meeting, the _possible_ meeting, is only serving to make him anxious. But that is no reason to remonstrate Gibbs for curiosity that is, after all, only natural.

England has only been at peace with France for a little under four months. It has taken that long for Laurence to arrange this meeting, and to haggle for invites by pressing every connection he has; doubtless there are more than a few friends who took wonder at his sudden interest in politics. And he wishes not for the first time that Lieutenant Riley were here, and not Gibbs. But the admiral who finally arranged an invitation offered two seats; Laurence could not invite his second-officer, and not his first, without making it seem like a slight.

“What do you think he's like?” Gibbs asks.

Laurence says, “We should not speculate,” only because he has spent far, far too long wondering that very question.

As they enter the palace, polite and well-practiced servants guide them to a long dining-hall that is clearly suited to parties. Many of the seats are already full, and English and French faces mingle easily. Since the peace began nobles have been flocking over the Strait for a glimpse at the Consul, and he has obliged them famously. Weekly dinner-parties have made his figure, and his rhetoric, well-known. Most people leave satisfied with the chance to provide an interesting anecdote at their next party, but Laurence is not here for such a petty reason.

He sits at one side of the table, and Gibbs across. To his left lounges a pretty French woman, and to his right a sleepy-looking English politician he vaguely recognizes. No sooner has the latter taken his seat than the hall erupts with the noise of squealing chairs; Laurence hastily rises. He watches raptly as the Consul strides forth, Napoleon Bonaparte in the flesh.

As everyone retakes their seats Laurence finds himself absently pressing a hand to his own arm – and to the mark hidden there, under layers of cloth and a dark privacy-wrap, where the Consul's name seems to burn with anticipation.

* * *

The name comes when he is 15, and Laurence hides it immediately.

There is not much thought to the action. Soul-mates are rare, and perhaps rarer still for sailors, who are not a breed of men known for romance. As a mid-shipman with a strict mode of dress no one is likely to get a good look at his forearm, where naturally the name appeared; nevertheless he takes the precaution of finding some dark cloth and fastening it carefully each day before dressing. Eventually this must be noticed, and his crewmates take great delight in it. Where larger society might not dare ask the question, a group of teenaged boys feel no shame in inquiring, “who is she?”

Laurence replies that the name is foreign; that he cannot know; that probably they will never meet. His terseness is only partially an affectation, and that same coldness quickly stems any questions.

For his part, Laurence memorizes the name and promptly puts it from mind. If soulmates are rare, it is fantastically uncommon for them to actually meet. Not impossible, of course, and he always keeps an ear open in foreign ports - but in truth the name rarely merits a thought. He still intends to marry Edith, after all. The fact that his name is male would only garner minor disapproval from Society, where self-denial is an art, but actually pursuing the connection is unthinkable.

Then at the age of 22 Laurence reads a letter from an old shipmate who writes that _“the troops in Italy were routed by some new General of theirs, Napoleon Bonaparte - “_

And Laurence thinks: it cannot be the same man. Perhaps it is a common name, in France.

He later checks. Napoleon is Corsican, and the name is not common at all.

* * *

The dinner begins easily. The Consul himself seems a bit distracted and whispers frequently to a hovering steward. Every so often a servant comes and presses a letter to his hand, and Napoleon gives some reply. Laurence wonders a bit, but the Consul is perfectly civil in response to any questions or approaches from those around him. But at first the room's conversations continue individually, with everyone only attending his or her partner, though Laurence does not blame the wrinkled English lady at his side when she occasionally turns and cranes her neck a little.

Napoleon speaks only French. The foreign name on his arm spurred Laurence to freshen his own education in the subject years earlier, so he has no issue eavesdropping. But the talk is disappointing – a useless mix of pleasantries and polite questions, all the usual pretty emptiness that often attends these types of dinners. Distracted, Laurence picks at his food and keeps his head bent low; he can feel Gibbs glancing at him as the hour progresses, but after a few failed attempts to speak with him the lieutenant turns to engage with more forthcoming neighbors.

Eventually someone asks Napoleon to recount some of his time in Egypt. The Consul obliges with enthusiasm. He speaks very well of the foreign culture and the religion; though the place would, he adds, doubtless be improved by a greater connection to France.

The conversation draws the attention of the entire table. “It is a pity the English interceded,” Napoleon says. “Perhaps one day I will have cause to return.”

“I do not think it is the place of a Consul to lead armies,” one English man says; Laurence recognizes him vaguely, though he cannot place the name. “Nor to influence other countries, even heathen ones.”

“An interesting argument,” says Napoleon dryly. “But perhaps you ought to say as much to the king of England before turning to me.”

“At least the king gained his power legitimately!”

This is a shocking rudeness, and the table briefly falls silent. Napoleon, however, is unperturbed. “Mr...?”

“Carnel.”

“Mr. Carnel. Your king inherited his throne; I won my position through election. France is a Republic. You cannot say it was unfair.”

“You are a thief; worse than the Directory. And the poor King Louis - “

“Is no doubt growing fat at the tables of his allies,” Napoleon interrupts. “The king is one man, and it is clear to all of France that the time for the Bourbons has passed. A leader should not rule if he cannot do well by the people.”

“Do you hate the Bourbons?” Laurence asks. Heads turn. People twist around in their seats to look at this new speaker, and Gibbs stares at him in horror. Laurence regrets whatever impulse drove him to speak. Yet he has already spoken, so he presses on. “You speak poorly of the late king.”

“I do not hate Louis,” says Napoleon, surprising him. “Not even Louis XVI. By all accounts he was a decent man, but he was a bad king.”

“Yet people cannot seek to topple monarchs whenever they disagree with some decisions,” says Laurence. “There would be anarchy, and France is only an example of this.”

“I am very pleased with France's anarchy,” says Napoleon. “And what would you propose, Captain? Should the people sit idly while they are abused and neglected, only because the king is _trying_ to do well _?_ That is a small consolation when children starve in the streets and the nation weakens. Louis was weak; and France was weak, too, drained by the leeches of the aristocracy.”

“And you believe you are stronger?”

“France does,” says Napoleon. Despite the nature of the discussion he is smiling faintly. “I cannot fault you your loyalty to your ideals, Captain – wrong though they are. Forgive me, what was your name?”

Laurence pauses for only an instant – a very brief instant – and then, in a fit of abandon, he tells the truth.

“William Laurence, Your Majesty.”

Napoleon's hand jolts sharply over the table. His gaze grows intent. He nods only once, concealing his surprise; but it is enough.

The conversation turns from there as one of the courtiers – evidently desiring a less divisive topic – starts telling the table about a very funny Scottish circus he once attended. Laurence gratefully turns from Gibbs' questioning look – and the Consul's stare – to give the spectacle his full attention.

The dinner draws late into the evening, and yet it is still sooner than Laurence would expect when Napoleon makes his excuses. A servant materializes by Laurence's side only moments after, saying quietly, “The Consul requests your presence in his office.”

Gibbs turns with alarm. “Do you think he took offense to your comments from earlier?” his lieutenant asks.

“Perhaps,” says Laurence, thinking no such thing. “But I will gladly debate that matter further; and if he means to remonstrate me for rudeness, I suppose it would not be undeserved. Pray return to the ship without me, Lieutenant. Do not wait up.”

Gibbs frowns, but he cannot disobey a direct order. “Aye, Sir.”

* * *

“William Laurence,” says Napoleon.

He says it like he is testing the sound. The door closes behind Laurence, leaving them alone in Napoleon's office.

It is a grand office – larger than many houses – and Laurence takes a second to let himself be distracted. There's a large map pinned to one of the walls, dotted in pins and notes. Another map covers the ground; a smaller desk has been pushed to the side of the room to make space. The desk is littered with neat stacks of paper, half a dozen pens. He can see one letter addressed to the Tzar of Russia, half-finished, and immediately turns away.

His gaze lands on a small cot in the corner of the room – the Emperor must work here frequently.

Napoleon watches him. “William Laurence,” he repeats. “I often hoped you were not an Englishmen. Yet, I find I cannot be disappointed.”

The words are overlaid with an obvious tone of suggestion – a suggestion that Laurence ignores. He steps forward into the office. “I am sorry to have surprised you, Your Majesty. But I could hardly ignore the chance to speak with you.”

“On the contrary, you have delighted me,” says Napoleon. “Please, sit down. I would speak with you further.”

But Laurence does not sit. “Perhaps this was a mistake,” he says aloud. Even he is not sure what he means by this statement. Was it a mistake to come here, in the night – to have come to France at all, and dare acknowledge this bond between them...

“Then why are you here?” Napoleon asks. He sounds almost mocking, now, something mean in the faint smile he wears. “Explain it to me; what do you want?”

Laurence cannot provide an response.

Napoleon doesn't seem to expect one. “I think you are here for answers,” he says, and barrels on. “Do you believe in fate, Captain? I do. I always have. And you would not be here if you weren't like me – if you were not willing to take risks for a good purpose.”

This extraordinary comparison leaves Laurence speechless for a moment. “I am not – you misjudge me, Sir. I have never believed in fate; a man's future is determined by his actions, and what King and country demand.”

“And yet, you are here,” says Napoleon. It's hard to find an argument against that. “Come closer. Let me see you properly.”

For some reason, Laurence obeys.

He cannot muster any surprise when Napoleon grabs his arms and kisses him.

For all his efforts to be Proper, Laurence is not inexperienced. He has kissed – and slept with – a number of woman. A shy maid, when he was seventeen; an eager widow, when he was twenty-one; a lovely foreign woman, whose name he never learned, when he landed in Spain. There was even - just once - a young and fumbling lieutenant on the _Fortitude_ who took him to a quiet corner in the back of the ship for an awkward, clumsy embrace.

This kiss is not – better, exactly. (Laurence still recalls the widow's eager enthusiasm on lonely nights). But the hands clasping his shoulders tug forward with no restraint; the kiss is hard and confident, and there's something charming in that, even against the slight and unlikely clumsiness of the body pressed against him.

Laurence could still leave. But he does not _want_ to turn away. And it occurs to Laurence that there was never anything proper in this, anything at all.

What did he think would happen, approaching a man - the Emperor of a nation that was so recently his enemy - and coming up to his office in the dead of night? He should have expected this. Maybe he did. And he is already in France; he has already risked enough.

It seems petty to worry about minor scruples _now._

So with a sudden courage, Laurence leans into the embrace. He yields under the press of skin as he can sense the emperor wants him to, winds his arms around the man's neck and brings them tighter together.

And, after awhile, he even lets himself be pressed back to that little cot in the corner of the room.

* * *

Laurence leaves in the morning without any fanfare. Napoleon invites him to stay only once; he does not argue with Laurence's explanation of his duty, but only says that he is welcome in France should he ever change his mind.

The war resumes just months later, and Laurence does his best to avoid any thought of that singular visit to Paris.

They will probably not speak again, Laurence thinks – or, at least, they will not speak until this war is over. And it must be over eventually – soon, even. Perhaps they can meet again, as in Paris, and perhaps...

Perhaps Laurence should just be patient, he chides himself. The war cannot last forever.


	2. Chapter 2

Up until now, Laurence has made himself deliberately ignorant of Napoleon.

This is hard, of course, when the self-made Consul is one of the most talked-about men in the world. But despite all rumors, and despite the necessary reports and news that Laurence _must_ read as a captain, he has always restrained himself from hearing rumors or speculation. Napoleon-the-monarch is separate to him, somehow, from Napoleon-the-man. He can easily brush aside newspaper suggestions, or the half-disdaining, half-awed talk of other navy officers. Rumors rarely approach the truth, and Laurence always tells himself that gossip would only give him an inaccurate idea of his soulmate, anyway.

But after seeing the man in the flesh, he cannot restrain himself. When he becomes an aviator – able, finally, to collect reliable information – he does not even try.

It is difficult to find excuses to enter Dover, but Laurence visits as often as he can. While there he collects papers of every type – newsletters, pamphlets, public pronouncements.

But the papers are a disappointing array of contradictions. Texts marked from just a few years ago, during the peace, praise Napoleon for his political acumen, for ending the chaos in France that resulted from the Terror. More recent publications call him a Tyrant, a man who cares only for greed and ambition.

But it's doubtful he's truly changed in that period. At a loss, Laurence chooses to heed the opinions of his fellow officers instead.

It's hard to make casual inquiries about Napoleon only because Laurence is wary of seeming too invested in the gossip. Yet an opportunity avails itself in early September, even if the source is unfortunate.

“A dear friend in London tells me that Napoleon has ostracized the Duc de Rochefort,” Rankin announces one day, to no one in particular; he settles himself at the captain's table, ignoring the looks of his neighbors. “Good luck for us,” he continues. “How his ministers deal with him, I cannot imagine.”

“Deal with him?” Laurence echoes.

Across the table Chenery grimaces, shooting Laurence a look that says, _don't encourage him._

But not everyone knows of Rankin's reputation. Farther down the table a lieutenant glances over – Tomes is his name, one of Yellow Reapers' men. “Don't see why that matters. The Duke has been in disgrace for a decade; it came out during the Revolution that his soulmate was a man. One of those lords they guillotined. Parliament has been bringing it up night and day, when they discuss that new registration law."

Laurence stiffens.

He has heard about the law, of course, and follows the matter in the papers. In theory the proposal seems practical enough. Registering soulmates could allow people to find their matches more easily. But there are numerous problems with the issue, and especially with the fact that the law proposes _mandatory_ registration. Many members of the higher class oppose the law because it would endanger their politically-selected marriages; others are concerned about the legal fights that might ensue when, for example, a woman is found to bear the name of a Frenchman.

And then of course -

“But have you heard?” Lieutenant Connors continues. “A lord up by Bristol was opposing the law, and then they found his wife's name belonged to her maid, if you credit it. No wonder he has been so firm!”

“But that is only more reason for the law,” Rankin sniffs. “And among Society, some men hide names even from their wives. I understand the inclination, of course. Women are such delicate creatures that they may never recover from knowing their husband has another name, even if it means nothing. But can you imagine living with your knowledge that your husband, or wife for that matter, is an invert? Better to avoid the fuss in the first place, and choose _proper_ marriages.”

“Heavy talk for a table,” says Chenery. Next to him Captain Little looks uncomfortable. Laurence realizes he is fiddling with his own sleeve – the one covering his mark – and hastily drops his hand.

Rankin huffs, ignoring the reproach. “I have even heard,” he continues, “That a captain in the navy was recently found to be bonded with one of his own lieutenants. Why he was not stripped of rank immediately I cannot imagine - “

“But it is not illegal,” says Laurence before he can check himself. Everyone at the table turns, and he flushes. “Not for more than fifty years. Why should it affect a man's career?”

“Well, of course it should not be illegal,” Rankin says. “That only encourages people to hide the whole thing, and then they cheat on their wives and it is quite the fuss. But I would not trust someone like that in the Corps, nor would I want to follow their orders.” Rankin waves his knife through the air. “It is one thing to allow women to handle dragons, when necessary, but the kind of deviancy that results when a _man_ is womanish - “

A chair scrapes back. “Excuse me,” says Little, dropping his napkin on the table as he leaves. Chenery rises to follow him.

The conversation quietly dies.

* * *

  
Temeraire brings up the matter the next day.

“Laurence?” he asks. “What is a soulmate?”

Laurence winces almost as a reflex; just two days ago Temeraire tried asking a great many uncomfortable questions about human mating practices, to the great delight of his crew. He glances around but, fortunately, doesn't find many spectators today – just Hollin, who gives him a quick nod of greeting, and a few midwingmen who aren't paying them any mind.

“It is a person's... ideal partner,” he says, awkwardly. Then he thinks of _his_ soulmate, winces, and amends the definition. “That is – some fortunate people have a mark on their arm, showing a person who is their...” He flounders again. “Who would complement them best. As a partner – usually romantic. I have already talked to you about marriages; everyone hopes to marry their soulmate, as there is no one better-suited for them in all the world. The Church tells us that soulmates are destined for us by the will of God, and I believe Plato had some comments on the idea; I will have to find you the text.”

“Oh,” says Temeraire. And for a moment Laurence hopes that will be the end of it. Then: “Do dragons have soulmates?”

Laurence is momentarily stumped. “I have never heard if it is so,” he admits. “Though as you cannot write, I am not sure what form it would take.” Saying so he calls over Hollin for his opinion.

“Oh, I've heard stories,” says Hollin thoughtfully. “But I'm not sure – can't say I've ever thought of it much. Oh, Lieutenant Granby!” He waves over the passing officer. “Answer a question for us, will you? Can dragons have soulmates?”

“Why, no,” says Granby with surprise. “I've heard stories that they do, of course; everyone hears stories as a squeeker, about dragons with their captain's name, and such. But I've never seen such a mark, and I've served with half a dozen dragons now.”

“Well, that is a pity,” says Temeraire.

“But that is not much of a testimony,” says Laurence. “Not one in a hundred men have marks; perhaps it is no different with dragons?”

“You might ask Captain Choiseul,” Hollin suggests. “The French are quite keen on romance; I think I've heard some sort of French fable about dragons and soulmates, though I cannot remember the particulars. Excuse me, Captain – I ought to return to my work.”

He leaves.

“Perhaps if I could learn to write I could get a mark too,” Temeraire sighs.

“No, I think not, my dear. There are many people who can neither write nor read, but get their own names anyway.”

“Well, that does not make _any_ sense,” Temeraire decrees. “I thought you said the names were in a person's handwriting? Could I see yours, Laurence?”

“Ah,” says Laurence, taken aback.

“That's an unkind question,” says Granby, after shooting him a surprised glance. Laurence can't recall an occasion where's he's needed to roll up his sleeves; his lieutenant has probably never noticed the black band around his arm. “It's considered rather rude to just – ask to view a mark.”

Temeraire is honestly confused, tilting his great head and leaning closer. “Why?”

Laurence clears his throat. “Sometimes,” he says, very aware of Granby watching him, “a person's soulmate might not be someone they are capable of marrying. For one reason or another.”

“You mean if someone is already married?” Temeraire asks.

Laurence latches onto the explanation with relief. “Yes, that is one possibility.”

Temeraire scuffs his talons into the ground. “Well, that is a little silly – I think people ought to be able to marry more than one person, if soulmates are so wonderful. Anyway, you cannot show me because you can't marry this person? Why not?”

Granby coughs uncomfortably, edging back and glancing at Laurence as though waiting for a cue to leave. Laurence grimaces. “I'd rather not discuss it, my dear,” he says, and leaves it at that.


	3. Chapter 3

Two weeks after arriving at Dover Laurence finds a letter in his quarters.

This is not, in itself, particularly worrisome. Laurence assumes that a servant left it. Perhaps Lenton was in a hurry, and wrote out some order or another. Or maybe a courier came back and missed him at mail-call, so they just sent the letter up anyway.

In any case he has gone the whole day without seeing it, so the matter can't be that urgent. Laurence looses his hair and strips away his uniform for night-clothes before opening it. Before reading the letter he glances down at the signature, then stops and stares.

Laurence slowly sinks into his bed. Then he reads the address of the letter – _My dearest Laurence –_ blushes, blushes _for_ blushing, and sets it back down. He paces the room a few times before continuing, which calms his nerves but down nothing to alleviate his sense of ridiculousness.

The letter reads thus:

> _My dearest Laurence._
> 
> _I know this letter finds you well, and indeed in circumstances so unlikely and so fortunate that I can scarcely credit it. My agents tell me you have come to captain the Celestial dragon egg gifted to myself by the Chinese. My admirals cursed its capture, but I know you are a good companion for the creature – and I hope that one day you will join the_ _Arm_ _é_ _e de l'air_ _, and prove it._
> 
> _Do not be distressed by this letter. Naturally I understand your reluctance to make contact; but know that despite this war, and all the ocean between us, I have not forgotten our meeting in Paris. This chance of Fate is a sign. When France wins this war, I hope it shall be easier for you to acknowledge what you want._
> 
> _My agent will be watching if you wish to write in response. I will be out of Paris by October, and may not write swiftly; but know you are ever in my thoughts._
> 
> _-N._

Laurence grimaces.

Aside from the more personal notes, there are a distressing number of items that would be interesting to the Corps. The letter reveals that Temeraire's egg was meant for Napoleon, himself, which has ominous implications for the relations between China and France. Temeraire is apparently not an Imperial, but a Celestial, a name Laurence only vaguely recalls from his ongoing correspondence with Sir Howe. And, most damning, Napoleon says he will be away from Paris come November. Is this true? And did Napoleon realize what a predicament he has placed Laurence in, by revealing these details?

But Napoleon is a tactical genius – of course he realized. Now Laurence must only determine what he _meant_ by it.

It could be a test; perhaps the Emperor wants to see how he will respond. It may be an extension of trust. Or perhaps it is simply a taunt – a way to force Laurence to make a choice, as punishment for not remaining in Paris two years ago when he had the opportunity.

Yes, Laurence decides. He cannot claim to know the man well – but that is exactly the sort of thing Napoleon would find amusing.

* * *

“Are there any dragons smaller than humans, Laurence?” Temeraire asks

Laurence blinks, dragging himself from his own ruminations. Temeraire has been oddly quiet during the days patrolling – a relief, as Laurence has been in no mood for speech himself – but it seems strange to think that _this_ is the thing that has distracted him. “No, my dear,” he says as the ground-crew starts to pull off his harness. “At least, none that I know of. I suppose it is not impossible, but dragons tend to be bred for size.”

“But there are couriers,” says Temeraire. “Who are small and very fast. If a dragon can be two tons, or twenty, why can't there be a dragon smaller than you?”

Laurence frowns. “Perhaps, in some distant place, that is true.”

“Will you ask Captain Choiseul?” Temeraire asks. “Perhaps they have smaller dragons in France.”

Laurence grins a little. “France is not distant,” he says. “I am speaking of countries further away, like China or Russia. Have you ever seen a proper map of the world?”

“No,” says Temeraire. “They are all very tiny, you see.”

“Perhaps I will draw you a diagram,” says Laurence. “Are you ready to go to the pens?”

After Temeraire eats and washes off Laurence finds himself eschewing his own dinner to wander around the covert.

Every hour that slips past makes him more guilty. Again and again Laurence catches himself thinking of the letter in his quarters, burning with a mix of delight and shame. If there is a security breach, a spy in the covert, he should inform Lenton at once. It does not matter why someone infiltrated his quarters; the fact is that they did, and to leave the letter they must be in regular contact with France.

Except, what would he tell the admiral? That an agent of the French Emperor is leaving him mysterious love-notes? Laurence flushes at the thought.

But he can hardly ignore the matter. If there is a spy among them, people need to know. Not to mention the aside, that Napoleon would be gone in October...

But Laurence can't offer his knowledge without _some_ sort of explanation.

Perhaps – perhaps if he discovers the spy? If he could get proof, find the traitor himself... really, there's no need to tell anyone about the note at all.

Of course, the prospective spy would be captured and questioned. And then they would probably talk about the letter, just to spite him. Laurence sighs. He can't imagine how he would begin to start searching for an infiltrator, anyway.

He has no recourse. He will make arrangements, speak with Temeraire in the evening, then find Lenton and reveal everything.

This determination leaves him no more settled.

“Now, you are looking grim,” says Jane Roland when his wanderings take him into the senior officer's dining room. She thrusts a drink into his hand, and Laurence drains it without looking – a shockingly strong whiskey. “Something wrong?”

Laurence stares at the glass a moment before the question registers. “No,” he says. “That is – I am sorry. I ought to leave. I need to speak with the admiral.”

“Oh, Lenton has flown to the city for some business,” she says easily. “I'm standing in for him, by-and-by; did you need something?”

“Ah, no,” Laurence says, surprised and guiltily relieved. “I suppose it can wait.”

Roland accepts this with easy grace. “Then sit down,” she says. “Goodness knows we can all use a break.”

They sit and share a cigar in the corner of the room. Laurence tries to be social, but he does not make for good company tonight. They exchange idle comments about patrols and gossip about one of the servants that has been caught thieving. Then Jane stubs out her cigar. “Alright. What is troubling you? And do not lie to me, or I will drag you out to Temeraire and see the whole thing revealed.”

Laurence winces. Imagines Temeraire gossiping over his soulmark. “I am sorry if I seem distracted. It is nothing, truly.”

“Hmph,” says Roland. “My Emily said the same thing last week, and then I found her crying because a stray cat had died; I do not believe you a bit.”

Laurence frowns. He wonders, ruefully, if he's ever been compared to a nine-year-old girl before.

“Now, out with it,” she says.

Laurence finds himself rubbing his arm where the soulmark lays. Roland's eyes follow the gesture. He flushes and drops his hand. “Temeraire has only been asking some awkward question,” he sighs. “I suppose I have been thinking.”

“Ah,” says Roland. “I don't have to deal with that, I suppose – I'm not Excidium's first captain, and by now he knows humans well enough even if he'll never quite _understand_ us. But I can imagine. I am sure he will stop prying, if you only explain you don't want to talk about...?”

She trails off, pointedly. Laurence ignores the hint. “Yes, perhaps I will try that. But sometimes it is hard to explain.

“Lord, don't I know,” Roland agrees. “Sometimes I think dragons must have sprung up from another world entirely. But I love the dears anyway.”

Laurence doesn't retire until late. By that time the halls are almost deserted; he's surprised to find Captain Choiseul pacing in front of his own door, looking around anxiously.

“Can I help you?” Laurence asks, pausing outside his rooms.

“Oh, no,” says Choiseul, still glancing around the hallway. Perhaps he was waiting for someone – a paramour? “That is, I did not mean to disturb you. But I have been wanting to talk, Captain. Perhaps tomorrow, when the dragons eat?”

Laurence takes pity on the man's fumbling. “Then we shall speak tomorrow,” he agrees. Probably the talk is just an excuse, because Choiseul gratefully flees.

The letter, of course, is still on his bed when Laurence enters. He stands a moment considering it. Rereads the message twice. Nothing new is revealed.

He has had a day's reprieve. But if anything it only makes the wait worse. He must make his report to Lenton as soon as possible.

And when he does – what will happen? Perhaps _he_ will be accused of espionage. Perhaps they will take Temeraire, or manufacture a lie to deceive him. Say that Laurence has had a heart-attack, that he died suddenly... Temeraire would never know the truth.

No. That's ridiculous. They'll understand, eventually. But the truth will follow Laurence forever – his career will never go untainted, and he will not be trusted.

Laurence accepts this, silently, and sits the letter aside. He douses the light and goes to bed.

A minute later he bolts upright. A letter in his room, a French spy, and Captain Choiseul, hanging around his rooms, looking guilty...

“Oh, hell,” he says aloud.

No wonder the bastard wants to speak with him.


	4. Chapter 4

Laurence forgoes breakfast in the morning and finds Choiseul with his dragon.

The two have been assigned only a very small crew. Choiseul and Praecursoris occasionally support other formations, but they typically fly as independents. To Laurence this now seems like a dangerous piece of leniency; for all they know Choiseul has been flying and back and forth to France when he should be patrolling.

Choiseul had been talking to Praecursoris, but becomes dangerously still when he sees Laurence lingering at the edge of the clearing. With a few quick words to his dragon the Frenchman joins Laurence. They silently begin to walk around the covert in such a path that they are soon alone.

Choiseul speaks first, averting his gaze. His words are unexpected. “You have a reply, I presume?”

At first Laurence doesn't understand. Then he does, and feels angry. “No, damn you,” he says. Choiseul winces. “I have no reply. What the devil were you thinking? After Lenton has protected you – have you always been loyal to the Emperor?”

“No,” says Choiseul. “You must never believe that. I hoped with all my heart that the King would be restored. But now I see now the truth of it; there is no stopping that tyrant. He will have England, if he wants, and any other countries beside. I have no doubt Bonaparte will be in London by Chrismastime– or, I had none, until I knew of you.”

This brand of cowardice disgusts Laurence. “I would have respected you more if you were really a traitor,” he says. “It is one thing to hold to your ideals and lie for the sake of your country; another entirely, to concede and steal information from them for your own good fortune, and your fear.”

“I had no choice!” Choiseul snaps. “With Praecursoris... and _you_ are hardly one to talk of traitors, Captain Laurence.”

“You made a choice,” says Laurence.

Choiseul presses his lips together and looks away. He cannot deny it. “Well,” he asks. “What are you going to do?”

Laurence looks up at the sky. “Gods, who knows,” he says.

* * *

Laurence goes about the rest of his day as normal. Lenton still has not returned, and Choiseul makes no move to leave, though he casts Laurence uneasy glances whenever they cross paths.

It is strange, to think that Laurence may decide the man's fate. He has killed men – many men – during his years of service. Yet somehow this is different. It is one thing to protect himself, in the violence of the moment, and strike a blow. Yet Choiseul is hurting no one – not in any personal way – and Laurence's visit to Lenton may yet decide his fate.

Spies are hanged. They never receive leniency.

Laurence cannot help but be angry at Choiseul – at Napoleon – for putting him in this position at all.

“You are very quiet today,” says Temeraire after the dragon eats. He is not the only one to have noticed; Granby has been casting him long looks, too, though the Lieutenant has not inquired so boldly.

How is he to explain? Laurence may well be arrested tomorrow; at the very least he will be questioned, and this whole business will be a stain upon his honor. He regrets – for a very, very brief moment – ever finding Temeraire's egg. The dragon would be better with a partner who is not doomed to a life of dramatics. Ever since his mark came in, Laurence has known it must be revealed eventually. But not like this, not so soon.

Laurence does not like to think himself a coward. But in the face of Temeraire's guileless question, he falters.

Tomorrow, he thinks, there will be time enough for explanations.

So he says, “It is nothing at all,” and lets himself pretend it is true.

* * *

Laurence startles awake while the sky is still dark. A servant stands by his bed. “Begging your pardon, Sir,” she says. “But the admiral has called for all the captains to assemble in his office – quietly, please.”

She leaves. Baffled and a little worried, Laurence hurries to pull on his uniform. He wonders if he ought to rouse Granby, waken his crew – but, _quietly_ , the girl said. Laurence cannot imagine what event would be simultaneously so important as to require waking every captain, yet so secret that no one else is alerted.

Other officers are already trailing outside when he exits. Captain Harcourt appears by his side, tugging at her coat futilely and fumbling with the top button. “Hullo, Laurence. Do you have any idea what this is about?”

“None whatsoever,” he admits. Harcourt's hand slips, and she curses. Laurence reaches over to close the button for her. Then he realizes what he's done and hastily drops his arms.

Harcourt doesn't seem to notice. “Oh, thank you. I am still half-asleep. Goodness, what time is it?”

Based on the darkness when they step outside, Laurence would guess that it's three or four in the morning. Together behind the other captains they shuffle into Lenton's silent office.

Lenton waits behind his desk until the room is full, counting them with his eyes. When everyone has arrived he stands. Someone closes the door.

“I am sorry to have disturbed you all this early,” Lenton says. “But I am afraid there is urgent news. We have discovered a traitor in the covert. Captain Choiseul has been found sending messages to Paris.”

Harcourt inhales sharply. Laurence briefly closes his eyes, shaken for a different reason.

Lenton knows, then – but how much?

“Of course,” the admiral continues, “We are now forced to scrutinize every piece of advice Choiseul has given us. Captain James, you will leave as soon as soon as possible when this meeting has ended; with any luck you may yet catch Excidium's formation and recall them. I sent them to Gibraltar on Choiseul's recommendation, which was always a gamble; now we must assume his information was compromised...”

What follows is a shifting of duties for everyone in the room, every formation. They do not know how much Choiseul has told the French; to be safe, they must change all their habits, all the patrols.

And then someone asked, “Sir, what of Praecursoris?”

“He is already being restrained by Maximus and Temeraire,” says Lenton. Startled, Laurence meets the admiral's gaze. Lenton nods apologetically, and for the first time Laurence notices that Berkley is missing. “He will be moved to the breeding grounds, if he can be influenced after Choiseul's execution.”

Execution – for slipping him letters, Laurence thinks. No, of course his crimes are greater than that; Napoleon would not waste so well-placed a spy by limiting him to the role of a messenger. But he feels nauseous nonetheless.

“There is one more thing,” Lenton says. “You will see this in the papers soon enough, I expect – just as soon as the ministers in London stop squabbling over it. But among the correspondences in his possession, Choiseul had a letter from the Emperor himself. It referenced Napoleon's soulmate – who is English, as it happens.”

Exclamations of shock, incredulity. Laurence crosses his arms, as though this could hide his own mark from scrutiny.

Despite the terrible news, Lenton's eyes slide past him as he looks around the room.

“Unfortunately the letter did not give a name,” the admiral says. “But keep your ears open nonetheless. Our politicians are as interested in this information as you might expect. Now, I have nothing else for you – I would suggest attending to your dragons before everyone starts waking up. Praecursoris' arrest has left them a little anxious.”


	5. Chapter 5

_Execution_ is not a concept that translates easily to dragons. They can understand battle, and even thrive in it; Laurence still remembers Temeraire on the deck of the _Reliant,_ barely bigger than a cat, asking him to recount for the tenth time his memories of the Nile. Dragons, he has heard, naturally fight each other for territory. In that they are no different than humans.

But this – betrayal, the solemn sentencing, hanging by the noose – this seems to greatly disturb them.

After Choiseul's death the dragons slink around in a black mood. At last Berkley, Harcourt, and their dragons come to Temeraire's clearing to pass around a bottle of wine and talk.

It is said that Choiseul declined a final prayer, or confession. He told his questioners nothing of French plans. And all the while that traitor claimed his silence would buy the safety of the as-yet-innocent, including 'one grievously wronged by God, who may yet make a choice more brave than mine.'

It would take an egoism of great proportions to think that he was referencing Laurence. And yet -

The dragons make a frankly treasonous declaration that they will all rebel together if any of their captains are threatened. Berkley reprimands them, and after some discussion the talk veers away into a related issue – even if it is only related in the most tangential way.

“Are there many offenses worth execution?” Lily asks. Laurence takes a deep drink; he keeps wondering why Choiseul hid his name. _If_ Choiseul hid his name. “Only, I think it would be good to know, so I can stop Catherine from being silly.”

“If I managed to get myself hanged, I would quite deserve it,” Harcourt says. “The courts do not easily kill women.”

“Well, that is strange,” says Temeraire after a brief explanation. “But quite useful for you. It is a pity you are not a woman, Laurence.”

Berkley snorts into his wine. “Now, you lot should stop fussing,” he says when he's recovered. “I cannot imagine any situation that would cause us three to be hanged. The only crimes that could hang a dragon-captain are treason or mutiny.”

“Why are people hanged?” Lily wants to know.

They try to respond as vaguely as possible – it will only make the dragons more indignant to know that people are sometimes killed for things like libel or theft. “Though the laws are getting more lenient,” Berkley says. “Used to be that people could be executed for things like having a bad soulmate, or offending the church; you don't see much of that, at least.”

Dragons always seem a little perplexed by religion, but the reference to soulmates interests them.

“I would like Harcourt's name on me,” says Lily, sounding a bit affronted. “I have heard that a soulmate is a person more important than anyone, but if I do not have Harcourt's name, that can't be right.”

“Dragons don't get soulmarks, love.”

“Well, then they are not very useful, are they?”

Berkley snorts. “I can't remember the last time I heard of someone being _happy_ with their mark,” he says. “No; fate does not much care if it very inconvenient to match you with someone halfway across the world, or twice your age, or whatnot. It is not so wonderful as all that. I am glad I don't have one.”

“I think it's a pity,” Maximus says. “I could use some help watching you.”

“You fuss more than my mother,” Berkley tells him.

Lily and Maximus depart after awhile, and Laurence alone remains with Temeraire, stroking his dark hide and watching the lowering sun. Temeraire cranes his head to peer at Laurence.

“Why won't you talk about your soulmark more?” he asks. “I understand it is a private thing, but even when we are alone, you will not discuss it.”

Laurence must smile a little at Temeraire's blithe assumption that only the presence of others makes Laurence reluctant to share. He is not wholly wrong, in fairness; Laurence knows that Temeraire would not judge him for the mark on his arm. But it still hard to speak of it. Laurence realizes with a little surprise that he has kept his arms covered for nearly fourteen years.

He decides to share at least part of the truth.

“You must not discuss what I tell you,” Laurence says, “For I fear it would not be received well by any polite society. I do not like to discuss my soulmark because the name belongs to a man. I am afraid it is viewed very poorly, for two men to be matched like this.”

“That seems quite silly,” Temeraire says. “You speak with more men than women, it seems to me; so it follows that you would be more likely to marry a man.”

Laurence decides to explain the legalities of marriage another day. “Many people are expected to marry women anyway – for children,” he qualifies. “So you see that it is uncomfortable, for wives to know you will never love them.”

“I do not see why love or even wives are required for someone to have children,” Temeraire complains. “Is there something very special about a wife? It seems to me that dragons have children fine without them, and I have never heard of _us_ having to marry.”

Laurence flushes. “That is – a man cannot have more than one partner, Temeraire. It is not proper.”

Temeraire snorts. “You are always making things more complicated than they need to be,” he says. “But I will say nothing, if that is what you really want. When you _do_ find your soulmate, though, I should very much like to meet him.”

Laurence tries to imagine Temeraire and Napoleon in the same place – he immediately shies from the thought. “Of course,” he promises.

He does not say – cannot say – that he has already met his soulmate. He can only imagine Temeraire's reaction to _that._

* * *

It is guilt that leads Laurence to inquire about Praecursoris.

“Poor thing is meant for Pen y Fan,” says Lenton, eyeing Obversaria's harness with a critical gaze. The old Anglewing tilts her head, peering one deep green eye down at Laurence. It feels unsettlingly like she might somehow divine his purpose. Laurence ducks his head. “Why? Have the dragons been gossiping?”

“It is my impression that the dragons always gossip, Sir.”

Lenton snorts and slaps Obversaria's side. “True enough,” he says. “Then why do you ask?”

Laurence presses his lips together. “I cannot justify it,” he says at last. “Consigning him to a life in captivity – it is not a future he deserves."

“Well, we are damn well not returning him to the French,” huffs Lenton. “And for once I have no pity; Praecursoris was as much a traitor as his captain. What else would you have us do?”

Laurence does not have an answer; that is the problem. “It only seems a shame. He knew nothing else; how can we reasonably expect a dragon to go against his captain? A man who hatched him, and raised him?”

“In the same way we'd expect any man to stand firm against his father,” says Lenton, “If the father were a blackguard and a murderer.”

“I would never let my Lenton become a murderer,” mentions Obversaria, sounding utterly disinterested in the conversation. “Because _I_ would kill anyone before he'd need to do it. Praecursoris should never have let himself be blackmailed in the first place.”

“And so Praecursoris is condemned by a trial of peers,” Lenton adds, dryly. “I know the ways of dragons are still strange to you, Captain. I am not without sympathy. But Praecursoris made his choice, and now he must live with it – and if fate has served him poorly, then I suppose he is no less well-off than half the world.”

* * *

October slips by, then November. The Battle of Trafalgar elicits days of rejoicing. Laurence receives correspondence from Riley explaining that the _Reliant_ was badly damaged in the action.

Laurence also receives letters from a few other naval officers, mostly lieutenants and captains who played their own roles in the battle. Due to the general clamor for news he becomes very popular for a few days.

Yet the general delight passes swiftly. It's heartening to see Britain's mastery of the sea reaffirmed. But in truth the war is still at a standstill. France cannot successfully invade Britain, but neither can Britain invade France – and meanwhile, the French chip away at their allies on the continent.

Laurence keeps feeling that _something_ momentous is going to happen. Christmas passes with a subdued sort of pleasure – explaining the Christian holiday to Temeraire becomes a sort of game for the crew, and Emily causes more laughter than anyone when she explains to him – with the incorrect surety only afforded to the young – that Christmas is when the whole world was created by God, and the holiday itself includes lots of eating, to represent all the wonderful things put on the planet.

“Well, that _does_ sound like a good reason to celebrate,” Temeraire decrees.

Laurence does his best to correct this misapprehension, though the damage is done. He later learns that the covert does not have a local pastor at all – something a little puzzling, after his years at sea – and he must give up the notion of trying to induct Temeraire into any sort of proper Christian thinking; Temeraire only keeps trying to contradict the Bible when he reads it.

But the holidays pass pleasantly enough, and all the dragons get extra helpings of food, as their own treat. The New Year comes and goes. January sees a brief increase in French patrols, which excites everyone for a short while before they tamper off again.

So the first months of winter roll by without much fanfare. Laurence can only feel a little guilty, a little foolish, for thinking that Napoleon would continue to think of him. Perhaps Choiseul's position seemed too convenient _not_ to use – but of course the Emperor would balk at sending messages through any more risky manner.

Laurence is not worth so much as that.


End file.
